14

The tattoo needle pressed into the flesh of Esben’s left arm, sending vibrations to his fingers and elbow. The sharp scratchings faded to a familiar, tickling warmth. He welcomed every sensation, losing himself in them.

“When we finish with your left arm,” Ingrid said, “perhaps we can touch up the work on your calf.”

The Nordic-style bear. “It is…” He had to do the math. “Twenty-four years old.”

“Yes, I can tell. It has seen a lot of sun.”

“Comes with the job.”

She paused and looked at him.

“Archaeologist,” he clarified.

“Right.”

As the needle traced the lines of the transfer, it traversed the scar on his left underwrist. He winced and balled his fists. The needle lifted.

It didn’t hurt, not how Ingrid must have assumed. He fought the instinct to flee, to hide, cry, or punch. After two and a half years, he thought he was ready.

Ein, to, tre…

He rode the waves of tense energy, breathing slowly. When he calmed and opened his eyes, then nodded, Ingrid continued.

Esben eyed his new artwork. He enjoyed the organic look to it and how, like the designs on his right arm, they were unmistakably hand drawn.

Inspired by the idea behind an Icelandic design of questionable meaning and origin called the vegvísir and a Viking brooch he had excavated, he crafted an elaborate knotwork design in the Borre style that also incorporated a compass. Vegvísir, translating to road sign, meant nothing to him archaeologically or culturally. But the purported symbolism behind it, a sort of mystical compass or map, spoke to him. For his tattoo, each flare of a sun-like compass pointed to an Old Norse word within the adjacent woven bands of the knot, spelled out in Younger Futhark runes.

The design wasn’t found on any artifact or the internet. His art, his choice of words—he gave them meaning, gave them power. And the tattoo, he hoped, when complete, would give him meaning in return and the strength to move on with his life. To heal.

“This is the important one,” Ingrid recalled, keeping her eyes on her work, tracing lines, wiping away trickles of blood and excess black ink. “Have you decided where it will take you?”

Esben again gazed at the underside of his left forearm and sighed. “No. I just don’t want to be lost anymore.”

Ingrid offered a calm, friendly smile. “You tell me if you need another break. I know how much this means to you. We will take our time.”

He nodded and smiled as well, then watched as she inked another line of his wayfinder.